Young Gordon throws a hissy fit

Everyday tales of ordinary folk in a street near where you live.

It all started as a perfectly normal day, Gordon Grodon was full of the joys of spring, bouncing along the pavement outside his Drowning St home well away from the hoy polloy when he noticed a couple couple of fags smirking and pointing as they hurried along to school.

"What's happened" he thought, then carried on musing. That was cut short when Shorty, his fag, approached at top speed, obviously bursting with news.

"Come on! Spit it out!" shouted Grodon, landing a hefty slap on Shorty's back.

Shorty reeled, got his breath back and began . . .

"Those sixth formers have written a nasty story about you and your mates getting your hands on the school funds"

"They say you made up some of the claims and actually spent the money on a new ipod"

Shorty had never seen anyone's face turn from red to white so quickly, or the shoulders slump as the fists clenched and the angry grimace spread across Gronod's face. He didn't need any prompting to turn and run. He felt the air around his right ear move as Grodon's clenched fist swung wildy past. Shorty felt the rush of adrenalin and ran like never before.

Meanwhile Grodon's face had changed again, no longer ashen, it radiated pure rage. Grodon stormed into No 10 throwing the heavy door back so it crashed against the wall. His mum appeared from the kitchen to find out what the commotion was about, but as soon as she opened her mouth Grodon threw himself on the hall carpet, arms and legs flailing in all directions, screaming and shouting.

Grodon's mum had seen hissy fits and temper tantrums in Drowning Street before, and knew the best course was to leave Grodon alone for a while, ideally in a darkened room, and let him calm down at his own pace.

Mrs Clown had noticed that young Grodon had been increasingly bad tempered with his friends lately. Every time they came to play there seemed to be trouble. First there was the incident with the computer printer. It had been found smashed on the floor, no-one knew anything about it, and in her own inimitable way she had as usual said it must have been mister nobody. She knew very well that Grodon was the culprit.

She had noticed too that Grodon's friends didn't call around so often and when they did their visits were shorter and Grodon shouted a lot and often gave them their coats and told them to go home.

It was a full hour before Grodon had calmed down enough to tell his mum about the problem. It appeared that the school had a cash kitty and that he had been choosen to look after it. Some sixth formers who didn't like him had written a nasty story about him in the rag mag, saying that he had fibbed about some of the spending.

Of course the school's kitty had rules and everything he had spent had been done according to the rules, he knew he was right on that point. It was those nasty boys who just wanted to make him look bad so they were telling tales.

"There, there. Everything will be alright, if you have done nothing wrong you have nothing to fear" said Grodon's mum. "It will all turn out well in the end."

Grodon turned the events over in his mind, putting all his energy into thinking of ways he could get his own back on those sixth formers. How could he get them? What would be the worst thing he could do to them?

It took time, but eventually a plan formed in Grodon's head. Later that day he explained to the head master that he thought some sixth formers had been helping themselves to things from the tuck shop and the police should be called to make a full investigation . . .

and so it was that the police were called but the nasty stories about Grodon and his mates continued and everyone knew there was no smoke without fire.

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